Celeste watched him get out of the car with the shotgun. He was wearing his two-tone uniform and a brown baseball cap with a gold star on the front. He took his hat off and rubbed his brush cut. He looked around and went to the front windows and looked in.
Now he walked along the west side of the cabin. Staring at the tire tracks in the grass, following them, then stopping, looking through a side window into the main room. He held a shotgun in his hands, looking alert, and came to the far edge of the cabin almost in the backyard.
Celeste came around the corner and met him. She said, “What’s up, Officer? Remember me?”
He aimed the shotgun at her. She could tell he was nervous. He looked left toward the woods, turned and looked behind him.
He said, “Mrs. McCall here?”
“She’s inside,” Celeste said. “Want me to get her?”
“You look familiar,” the deputy said.
Celeste said, “Would you mind pointing that scattergun somewhere else? It makes me nervous.”
He aimed the shotgun barrel at the ground.
“What’s the problem, Officer?” She had the Ruger tucked in the waistband of her jeans, could feel it pressing against one of her butt cheeks. “You expecting trouble?”
The deputy stared at her.
Celeste said, “Carrying a shotgun and wearing a vest?” She could see the impression of it puffing out his shirt.
“Don’t leave home without it,” the deputy said.
“That’s clever,” she said. “Ever considered a career in advertising?”
“Yeah,” he said, “that’s why I became a cop.”
He grinned, showing he was a fun guy.
She saw DeJuan appear, coming around the south side of the cabin, moving toward the deputy, leveling his twelve-gauge.
“You aren’t by chance an Aryan, are you?”
DeJuan was getting closer-thirty feet away now.
“My parents were committed, but I never bought it myself,” the deputy said. “Why do you ask?”
“I had a feeling,” she said. “I don’t know.” But she did. It was the muscles and the brush cut and the blue eyes. He looked like one of Richard Butler’s Ayran Warriors. “How do you feel about blacks?”
DeJuan was closing in-twenty feet now.
“I don’t dislike anyone ’less they give me a reason,” he said.
“How about city jigs with shotguns, who want to do you great bodily harm?”
“I’d take issue with that,” he said.
“ ’Cause there’s one behind you right now.”
The deputy turned like she knew he would and brought the shotgun up, but he was too late. DeJuan fired. Boom. The first blast hit him in the chest, blowing the shotgun out of his hands, sending him backpedaling.
DeJuan racked the twelve-gauge, moving toward him. The second blast hit him in the head and he went down, body twitching. Celeste pulled the Ruger from her waistband and shot him twice and he lay still.
Celeste said, “Think he told dispatch where he was going?”
DeJuan said, “Why you asking me?”
Teddy appeared now, walking up behind her, and looked at the deputy. “O death, O death, won’t you spare me over for another year,” he said in a singsong voice. “I guess not.” He glanced at her. “I’m death, I come to take the soul. Leave the body and leave it cold.”
Celeste said, “What the hell’s that?”
“Them’s words from a song my uncle used to sing when somebody passed away.”
“This motherfucker didn’t pass away,” DeJuan said. “He blown away.”
“Where they at?” Celeste said.
“Locked up tighter than a jaybird’s ass,” Teddy said.
“How about Jack?”
“Dumbass setting there in his bracelets,” Teddy said, “tryin’ to figure out what the hell happened.”
Teddy picked up the deputy’s shotgun, which was now pocked with buckshot, the pump lever hanging from the barrel. “That’s a damn shame-ruined a perfectly good Hi-Standard Flite King twelve-guage.”
“We through with the small talk now? Got to get the deputy out of here,” DeJuan said.
Celeste said, “What if he told the station where he was going?”
“What if he did?” Teddy said.
“They don’t hear from him,” Celeste said, “they send reinforcements out here to have a look.”
“I think we’ll be gone by then,” Teddy said.
“What if we’re not?”